


We'll Sink or Swim Together

by dontwakeme_causeimdreaming



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Bellamy is an optimistic little bean, Bellarke, Clarke is a badass, F/M, Fluff, Smut, TW: Domestic Abuse, The 100 - Freeform, Titanic AU, bellarke AU, tw: attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontwakeme_causeimdreaming/pseuds/dontwakeme_causeimdreaming
Summary: The year is 1912, and Clarke Griffin is trapped. She is not only stranded in the middle of the sea on the first class ocean-liner, the RMS Dropship, but she is also engaged to a man she detests. For her, the trip from Belfast to New York could not pass quickly enough. Bellamy Blake, however, could not have been more excited when he won a ticket for the RMS Dropship. He would finally be returning home. This was a once in a lifetime experience, and he would enjoy every second of it.The unlikely pair sail on the same boat, but live very different lives. Luckily, this trip may bring them together, or ultimately tear them apart for good.----Or, a Bellarke Titanic AU!





	We'll Sink or Swim Together

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Titanic Au I promised! I am super lazy by nature, so I barely edited this and it may show. Please take this into consideration and be kind if you notice mistakes. Also, this is my first time ever attempting a smut scene, so hopefully it's not horrible. Hope you enjoy xxx
> 
> **I do not own the characters from the 100.
> 
> **I do not own the plot of the Titanic

**10 April 1912**

  


An ace of spades. That’s all that stood between Bellamy, and a royal flush. He signaled to the dealer for one hit as he discarded his two of hearts. With a flourish, the stocky Irishman dealt Bellamy his next card, and with hands a lot steadier than his fluttering heart beat, his turned the card over. An ace of spades.  


His opponent raised a pound, a slight smirk creeping onto his coal covered face. Bellamy and Murphy exchanged glances. Between the two of them, they only had two pounds combined. With a small nod, Murphy forfeited his pound into Bellamy’s outstretched palm, and Bellamy raised his bet.   


His opponent flipped his hand, slapping the cards on the table with purpose. Four kings. Murphy’s face fell, suddenly crestfallen at the prospect of never returning home. Bellamy mirrored his expression long enough for his opponent to pull the pile of coins toward his chest. 

Quick as a flash, Bellamy slapped the pile to prevent it from being dragged further, and used his other hand to show his cards. 

Anger flashed in his opponent's beady eyes as he swung a fist toward Bellamy’s face, but Murphy deftly caught his fist and twisted it away, catching the other man off balance.  


Bellamy and Murphy scrambled to gather every last coin, and ran out of the pub towards the docks, both howling with youthful joy.

They were going home.

——

Clarke stood on the top deck of the RMS Dropship, staring at the tranquil harbor as her fiancé Cage Wallace droned on about the amenities of first class on the ship.   


“There’s a ball room, of course, because all respectable ships have one,” he continued, appreciating the sound of his voice too much to notice Clarke had long since stopped listening.   


“Naturally, no one without a first class ticket is allowed to dine with _us_ ,” he said with an expression Clarke associated with people biting lemons. Below them, a man with a dark beard and crinkled clothing ran along the deck, chasing a giggling young girl with two long braids. “A good thing, too, or else my appetite would be ruined.”  


Clarke was saved from dignifying Cage with a response as the cruise liner began to slowly pull away from the dock. From so high up, she could barely make out the sight of the smiling faces, the people waving frantically to say good bye to their loved ones. 

Like a guitar string being plucked, Clarke felt a tug in her chest. Her loved ones were here with her, she reminded herself. She didn’t need anyone to wave to her, to wish her _bon voyage_ , or smile tearfully as she disappeared from view.   


“Everything I need is right here on this ship,” Clarke whispered to herself, hoping if she said it with enough conviction she may actually believe it.  


“Did you say something?” Cage asked, looking put out at having been interrupted.

“No, Love, I didn’t say a thing.”

Looking pleased, Cage resumed his one-sided conversation, and Clarke tore her eyes away from the dock to look at her fiancé, trying her hardest to focus on his words.

——  


Bellamy fell backwards onto his twin bed gracelessly, his small backpack landing squarely on his chest. Although the pack contained all of his belongings, it weighed next to nothing. He undid the buckle and opened the pack, gently lifting out a glass frame containing a single photo.  


In the photo, Bellamy sat on a bike he had borrowed from his neighbors up the block. Although it was impossible to tell from the old black-and-white photo, the deep red color of the bike remained his favorite to this day.   


On the handlebars of the bike sat a small girl, her hair neatly tied in a pony tail with a ribbon posed a great contrast to Bellamy’s unruly curls. Neither one of them looked at the camera. Her mouth was open, displaying her toothy grin, as her head was thrown back in a laugh, and her eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiled just as Bellamy’s did. He stared directly at the girl, a look of pure fondness and warmth evident on his face.

With one last wistful stroke to the front of the frame, Bellamy placed it beneath his pillow and unpacked the rest of his belongings: two pairs of muddy trousers, a button up shirt, and an old copy of _the Iliad_ whose binding was nearly unraveled.

  
From a running start, Murphy leapt onto the top bunk of the bed adjacent to Bellamy. Peering over the metal frame, an uncharacteristic grin spread across his face, devoid of any trace of mockery.

  


“I can’t believe we’re here,” he said, awe lacing his voice.

“Me neither,” Bellamy admitted. After a beat, his face lit up the way his sister’s always would on Christmas morning. “Let’s go explore.”

Murphy rolled over, landing onto the floor with a thump. This time, when he grinned, it was filled with his usual mirth.

——

The fresh scent of salt drifted along the upper deck as the breeze threatened to blow Clarke’s hat from her head. She trailed a few steps behind her fiancé, her arm laced through her mother’s.   


Her mother’s advice echoed in her mind. “Remember to be seen, but not heard, Clarke. Never heard,” she had said.  


Abby squeezed her daughter’s hand, no doubt spying the slight frown that was etched on her face.   


In response, Clarke looked up, having been stirred from her thoughts. She smiled tightly in Abby’s direction, but if her mother noticed that the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, she said nothing.  


Ahead of her, Cage and his father complimented the engineer Sinclair on his design. Cage’s hand brushed along the wooden edge of a lifeboat, and a look of distaste clouded his expression.   


“I can’t help but wonder, however, if the ship could have been improved with _less_ lifeboats present. They’re quite the eye sore.”

Sinclair looked momentarily taken aback before composing himself enough to respond. “I understand your perspective, Mr. Wallace, but they’re simply necessary in the case of an emergency.”

Clarke pulled herself free from where her mother still grasped her arm, and pushed herself forward to disrupt the conversation.   


“Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, but just how many lifeboats are there on this ship?” Clarke asked, trying not to squirm from where Cage forcefully gripped her wrist in punishment.

  
Abby let out a small shriek of protest, appalled at her daughter lack of etiquette, but Sinclair only looked amused. 

“There are 20 lifeboats, each capable of holding 60 grown men. But don’t you worry, Miss. Griffin, women and children will be the first to leave in the event of an emergency.”  


Dante Wallace placed a reassuring hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “There won’t be an emergency to worry about, Clarke. This ship is unsinkable.”

Sinclair puffed out his chest a fraction at the praise, but Clarke looked unimpressed.   


Dante and Sinclair continued walking, immersed in conversation about the rest of the ship’s layout, but Cage lagged behind, his hand still firmly grasping Clarke’s wrist. 

“Just what,” he growled, his breath hot in her ear, “do you think you’re doing? _Don’t embarrass me again,_ ” he threatened.  


Instead of cowering under his scrutiny, Clarke stepped toward him slightly and yanked her wrist free, momentarily catching Cage off balance.  


Without sparing him a second glance, she ran to catch up with Dante and Sinclair.

“But Mr. Sinclair,” she began, ignoring the daggers that Dante sent her for interrupting. “There are only enough lifeboats to carry 1,200 men, and there is nearly twice the amount on this ship.”

Sinclair laughed, albeit humorlessly. “My, Miss. Griffin, aren’t you a smart woman. But as I said, you’ll be one of the first evacuated in the event of an emergency.”

Dante reached his hand out and placed it on her shoulder for the second time in ten minutes, but this time his grip was a far cry from reassuring. He squeezed tightly, and it took all of her effort not to cringe.

“The ship is unsinkable,” he said, the sinister smile never leaving his face. His tone caused Clarke’s protest to die on her lips, and with one final squeeze of her shoulder, the two men continued to stroll again.  


For the first time, Clarke looked down at her wrist, and saw a hand-shaped bruise blooming on her porcelain skin. 

——

  
For the third time in a row, Bellamy restarted his page of _the Iliad_. 

Not that it was completely necessary, he thought. He had read the book cover to back so many times he had the pages nearly memorized, and if he accidentally skipped a few lines when distracted, he could still follow along seamlessly.  


The first time, Bellamy lost his focus when Murphy yelled loudly and jumped up and down excitedly, feeling unjustly triumphant after hustling a group of kids playing a game of Jacks.   


The next time, a young girl ran up toward Bellamy and tugged on his trousers. She sobbed incoherently, and had to explain herself multiple times through hiccups before Bellamy finally understand that she was lost. After reuniting her with her mother and brother, he returned to his seat on the cold wooden bench near Murphy and opened his book again.  


He had read for nearly ten minutes before the next distraction descended upon him in the form of a beautiful blonde woman.   


She sat on the upper deck, and as if that wasn’t an indication enough of her class, the silk dress she wore cost more money than Bellamy had earned in his entire life.   


She sat on a similar bench to his own, but hers was adorned with cushions, and in her hands she delicately held a piece of charcoal and a sketch pad.   


The woman stared intently at the pad, only looking up every so often to look in Bellamy’s direction. Had he not known any better, he’d have thought she was drawing him.  


But of course, Bellamy did know better, and he knew that no woman like her would fancy drawing a man like him.  


Even knowing this, Bellamy caught her staring from the corner of his eye on more than one occasion.   


When he finally looked at her straight on, and their eyes met, Bellamy gave a little wave. The woman immediately turned away and abruptly shut her sketch pad, her pale cheeks becoming red at being caught.  


With one last lingering look, she stood from her bench and disappeared from his view.  


Bellamy wasn’t able to focus on his book again, after that.

——

Her bedroom was adorned with expensive jewels and famous artwork, and although Clarke held a special place in her heart for art, the overwhelming shadow in the pit of her stomach kept growing.  


She didn’t care to look at the paintings, nor did she wish to place the ruby bracelets and emerald earrings on her body. 

Staring numbly ahead, Clarke sat in silence. She heard the chattering sound of her fiancé and mother discussing where they would hang the art once they arrived back in New York, but to her it registered as nothing more than an annoying buzzing not unlike that of an insect’s.   


As the oppressive shadow inside her blossomed into a suffocating wave of despair, Clarke stood up, her white skin even paler than normal. 

Her mother shot her a concerned glance, but Clarke feigned a smile and brushed off her mother’s worry.   


“I’m just going to a walk in the moonlight. I’d like to enjoy the fresh air as much as possible before we arrive in New York. Would you care to join me, Cage?”

Cage barely looked up from the painting he held securely in his hands. “No, that’s ok. You can go on without me,” he said, and nearly just as soon as he looked up his attention returned to his artwork.

Abby lingered beside Clarke a little longer, her brows still furrowed together. “Do bring a jacket, Clarke. The high seas can get quite nippy at night,” she said hesitantly, her hand outstretched between them as if she wanted to say more.  


Giving her mother’s hand a quick squeeze as she passed, Clarke grabbed her thick overcoat from the hook by the door and left, shutting the steel door and her mother’s concern from her mind.  


——  


If Bellamy’s dark curls had been a tangled mop this morning, the ocean’s wind did nothing to help. He walked along the lower deck, hugging his thin tan coat tightly around his chest. Once he arrived in New York, he thought, he would have to buy a thicker jacket.

The waves rocked the boat, and every so often dark water splashed over the rail and soaked his loafers. 

Not even wet socks, however, could dampen Bellamy’s mood. He stood on the deck on one of the most luxurious cruise liners in the world, but even better than that, he was going home again. 

In one week’s time, he would be standing on Ellis Island, closer than he’d been in two years to his sister.   


So no, not even wet socks could make Bellamy unhappy tonight.

He didn’t think anything could.  


——  


As soon as Clarke turned the corner from her quarters, and was long out of sight from her mother, she took off running. It was late enough in the evening that no one in first class was roaming the halls, all having retired to their rooms earlier after gorging themselves on roasted duck with rich sauce, calamari, escargot, and wine.  


She held the skirt of her dress up from the floor, careful not to trip as she ran. Water dripped from her nose to her lips, and when she tasted it she resisted salt. Whether from her tears or the ocean spray, though, she didn’t know.  


The railing came into view, but she didn’t slow down. She barreled into the metal, and the impact would’ve knocked her breathless if she weren’t already panting from her sprint. 

Leaning over, the moonlight stared back at her, reflecting off the surface of the ocean. Clarke couldn’t help but think her jump would be much easier if she wouldn’t see the surface, if the moon weren’t so bright tonight. At least then, she wouldn’t have to know how far her fall would be.

——

“It was lucky that the moon was so bright tonight,” Bellamy couldn’t help but think. Had the moon not been full, he wouldn’t have been able to see the blonde hair speeding past him from the top deck.

At this time of night, no one was outside. This was originally what had attracted Bellamy to the deck, appreciating the solitude, which acted as a reprieve from the tight quarters below deck. 

His eyes followed the blonde woman as she ran, her hair appearing nearly white under the light of the moon. Even from two decks below her, he could hear her wracking sobs.

  
With a quick glance thrown over each shoulder, ensuring no one could see what he was about to do, he hopped the fence and ascended two flights of stairs to the upper deck.

  


As Bellamy landed gracefully on his feet, he looked around him again, trying to find the woman. 

He saw her, then. She had climbed over the railing, and was holding on with only one hand as she wiped her teary eyes with the other.

Bellamy broke into a run, flying across the deck to reach her. Still, only one hand held onto the railing as her other forearm was thrown over her eyes, shielding her face. He couldn’t help but notice the dark purple bruise spiraling up her wrist.

“Excuse me, Miss, but you really shouldn’t be on the other side of that railing. One strong wave could send you right over the edge, barreling head first into those propellers.”

She looked startled at his words, her whole body stiffening. Slowly, she lowered her arm from her face and finally held on with two hands. 

Defiantly, she raised her chin, a haughty expression appearing on her face. “I’m sure you’d know all about the strong waves, being from third class, now wouldn’t you?” 

She turned her head away, peering down towards the propellers below her. She sucked in a shaky breath, but she didn’t tear her eyes away from below her.

“You’re right,” he began, and she finally looked away from the water to fix him with a confused state. Whatever she had expected him to say, that was not it.

Bellamy continued speaking. “You’re right. I have experienced the waves down in first class, which is how I know I’m not going to enjoy jumping headfirst into them after you.”

Her eyebrows furrowed together even more, her knuckles turning white on the railing beneath her. “Why on Earth would you jump in after me? The propellers would kill you. You just said so yourself!”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, his brown eyes boring intensely into her blue. She shivered, despite her thick overcoat. “But I guess we’ll find out. We’ll sink or swim together.”  


——

  
Clarke shifted, angling her body away from the abyss for the first time since the man first spoke to her. She looked pensive, her eyes scrunched up as if she were trying to calculate their latitude from just the stars.  


“But why would you do that? I’m a stranger to you.” Her voice was small, but desperate for a response, nearly pleading.

He reached out toward her, his hand gently removing hers from the railing to hold his instead. His grip was firm, but nothing like Cage’s. He made her feel safe.

His thumb traced her knuckles, still white and tense. Much like his hold on her, his gaze was steadying.  


“Because you deserve it,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. Unlike Dante’s finalizing tone from earlier that afternoon, which made her feel threatened into silence, his made her feel like she couldn’t argue solely because what he said was true.

His hand squeezed hers, his eyes still intently looking into her own, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.  


Relief washed over his face, and for the first time since he approached her, she recognized his expression. It was the same he wore earlier as he hunched over his book, curls windswept, shoulders relaxed. He stared at her with as much interest as his tattered book, and her hands itched to finish sketching him. 

For the second time that day, the shadow inside her quelled long enough for her passion to take its place, for her desire to see the sun set another day to come crawling from where it lay dormant. For the second time that day, he sparked something similar to _hope_ inside of her.  


——  


Seeing her nod made Bellamy feel as light as he had when he first saw his sister after the fire. When he arrived home from work to find that the entire apartment was up in flames, he pushed through the crowd of soot-covered people shouting his family’s names. When Octavia pushed her way through the crowd, launching herself into his arms, he felt dizzy with relief.

Which is how, standing on the edge of topmost deck of this hulking ship, Bellamy felt now.   


His mood quickly flipped, however, when the woman tripped on her skirt as she tried to climb back over the railing, sending her legs over the edge. Had it not been for his tight grip on her hand, she’d have fallen into the water.

  
She shrieked, so loud that she was sure to wake up the entire ship. “Good,” Bellamy thought. “Then maybe someone else will be able to help us.”

He leaned over the railing, as far as he could while retaining his balance, and tried to haul her dangling form upwards. It proved too difficult, as she thrashed wildly around.  


Her blue eyes locked on his, wearing the expression of a caged animal. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and though terror still laced her screams, she seized her thrashing. 

“Grab my hand,” he shouted, reaching his other arm down toward her.

The distance between them was too great. Her fingertips barely brushed his, not nearly close enough to grab him. Her other hand began to slip from his, her sweating palms making it difficult to maintain a hold.  


“I’m going to swing you a little,” he said, and she began to scream once again. “Shhh shhhh shhh,” he warned, tightening his grip so she wouldn’t slip. 

“Once I swing you, reach up and grab my other hand. The motion should rock you close enough that you’ll be able to grasp me. Ok?”

She said nothing, her wide eyes quickly glancing from the ocean beneath her to his once more. Her screaming having stopped, the only sounds he could hear now were her heavy breathing and the slapping of the waves against the metal ship. 

“I trust you,” she said at last, voice firm.

“Ok, then here goes nothing.”

——

Clarke’s body rocked to the side forcefully, nearly causing her to bang into the middle. Then, like a pendulum, she swung the opposite direction.

The man was right. She swung just high enough to reach his hands, her fingertips not just brushing his, but able to grasp on completely.  


He pulled her towards him, back over the railing, and they both toppled to the floor. 

Before Clarke could even utter a thank you, her body was ripped away from the man’s and enveloped in the arms of another.

  
Peering over her shoulder, Clarke saw Cage’s beady eyes. He shoved her out of his arms and behind him as he lunged toward the ground to pick the man up by the collar of his shirt.  


If the situation weren’t so horrifying, Clarke would’ve laughed at his expression. Cage looked like steam would start coming out of his ears.

Cage hauled the man to a standing position and thrust him against the railing Clarke had just climbed over. The man’s back bent over nearly in half as Cage held his throat and shoved his head closer to the water.

After her momentary shock, Clarke raced forward and threw herself between Cage and the man.

“You don’t understand,” she shouted.  


“You’re damn right I don’t. What the hell were you doing lying with this guy on the ground, tears streaming down your face?”

Clarke shot the man a quick pleading look, begging him not to tell her fiancé what she had been about to do. Although he had looked as though he was about to interject, he abruptly closed his mouth so Clarke could talk.  


“I thought I saw a whale,” she said, her voice quiet in comparison to her wildly beating heart. “When I leaned over to get a better look, my foot got caught on my dress and I nearly fell overboard. This gentleman saved me.”

Cage finally released his hold on the man’s neck, and although he looked a little blue, he didn’t reach up to touch his throat, instead keeping his hands firmly at his side.   


After he casually brushed off his pants, as if he had sat down on some grass without a blanket rather than attempted to murder another man, Cage reached out a hand to shake the other man’s.  


“Cage Wallace,” he offered, puffing up his chest as he said his name. 

Clarke thought that he could probably get himself off just thinking about himself. She snickered to herself, but passed it off as a cough.

“Bellamy Blake,” the other man said, his eyes trained on Clarke’s.  


Cage nodded, as if the handshake settled his debts, and moved to grab Clarke by the wrist. She evaded him, instead moving to stand beside Bellamy.   


“Cage, darling,” she said, her voice saccharinely sweet. “Bellamy just saved my life. Am I just worth a handshake to you?”

Her fiancé grumbled to himself, looking put out at being berated by a woman. “Whatever you want,” he muttered, “is yours.”

Clarke laced her arm through the crook of his elbow, her voice still sickeningly sweet as she responded, “Great. We’ll give you the night to think about it, and you can tell us tomorrow over dinner.”

She turned away from him, finally tearing her eyes to look at Cage’s seething expression. He knew better than to disagree with her offer though, lest he wish to look ungrateful.

When she and Cage returned to their suite, Clarke excused herself for the night, claiming she was retiring early due to stress from her night.

As she lay in bed, the moonlight creeping in through her window, she smiled to herself. “Bellamy,” she thought, over and over until she drifted off to sleep.

——

**11 April 1912**

Last night, Bellamy hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He tossed and turned all night, his lumpy mattress squeaking beneath him each time he rolled. 

At some point, Murphy took off his shoe and threw it toward Bellamy, having had enough of the incessant noise.  


After that, Bellamy laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the blonde woman until he heard sounds around him in the cabin, alerting him that the day had sprung and he could get up.

“Hopefully to see her again,” he thought to himself.

For the course of the entire day, Bellamy paced. He didn’t even attempt to pull out his book, knowing that yesterday when he thought the woman was distracting was nothing compared to today. 

Murphy looked up from where he sat on the floor teaching some children how to play cards. To any passerby, he probably looked sweet, but Bellamy knew his friend well enough to know that Murphy had something up his sleeve.  


Whether it was an anterior motive or a card, though, Bellamy didn’t know.  


“The scent of your anxiety is wafting off you, and it’s really making me lose my appetite. Can you go somewhere else to brood?” Murphy asked.

“I’m not brooding.”

Murphy rolled his eyes and returned to the game at hand. Just as Bellamy was about to sit down and try to focus on something other than her (namely, what exactly Murphy was doing with these kids), he saw her.

She leaned over the railing, a white dress with black ribbon and ruffles covering her frame. When she caught his eye, her face lit up with a grin. She waved at him frantically, trying to get his attention, as if it were possible to look at anything else in that moment. 

He approached the edge of the lower deck, staring straight up towards her.

She cupped both hands around her mouth, and then called, “Come on up!”

Bellamy didn’t need to be told twice. He shot one last look at Murphy, who didn’t look up from where he flipped his cards with a flourish.

The woman opened the gate at the top of the stairs for him as he took the steps two at a time. She extended her hand toward him, and he brought it to his lips to kiss. 

“Hello, Bellamy,” she said, curtsying slightly in greeting.

His lopsided smile quickly faded, and his ears tinged pink. Avoiding her expression, suddenly more interested in his shoes, he admitted, “I didn’t actually catch your name yesterday.”  


She placed two fingers under his chin, forcing him to look at her once more. Her smile hadn’t lessened at his confession, but instead stayed the same: wide and dazzling white. 

“I’m Clarke,” she said, and the realization suddenly dawned on Bellamy that one syllable had never sounded so good.   


Together, the pair set off on a stroll around the upper deck, Clarke’s arm tucked carefully in the crook of his elbow, and for what felt like the millionth time since yesterday, he felt grateful for the full moon’s light last night.

——

Cage was already upset after a conversation with Dante when he discovered his fiancé and Bellamy walking around first class arm in arm. 

He stopped short, appraising Bellamy from head to toe with a sneer on his lips.  


“I almost didn’t see you there, Blake. You blend right in with the dirt on my shoe.”

Beside her, Clarke felt Bellamy stiffen. She squeezed his hand, silently urging him not to engage in Cage’s antics.

He relaxed, but the smile that spread across his face did not reflect the secret smiles he’d been sending Clarke all morning.

With a shrug, he responded, “That’s good to know. That means it’ll be easy for me to sneak up to this deck in the future.”

When Bellamy turned to wink and her, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t even bring herself to care that Cage’s face was turning the color of a tomato, or that she would hear about this in private later.  


“We’ll see you at dinner, Blake,” Cage said through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to them to forcefully pull Clarke from the other man’s arms. 

As Cage dragged a stumbling Clarke away, not caring whether or not she was upright and walking, he spared a glance over his shoulder. 

“Oh, and Blake,” he called. “Do wear something nicer, won’t you? I’d say we don’t want any of our company to confuse you with the wait staff, but even they look better.”  


——  


Bellamy stood alone on the deck, wringing his hands together, and staring at the receding forms of Clarke and her _fiancé._

“God, what do I think I’m doing?” He quietly muttered to himself, disentangling his hands long enough to rub his face.   


When he lowered his hand and opened his eyes once more, he was no longer alone.

An older woman dressed in an ice blue long sleeved dress and a grey hat stood in front of him, her arm looped through a younger man’s around Bellamy’s own age. 

While the woman stared at him quizzically, like an exotic animal or a rare species of bug, the man smiled warmly, extending his hand.

“Roan Azgeda,” he said, firmly shaking Bellamy’s hand. Bellamy returned the gesture, introducing himself as well.  


“I see you’ve managed to piss off the Wallace’s,” he continued with a wry smile.

The older woman spoke for the first time, her studious expression falling into something almost akin to amusement. 

“Join the club.”

While Bellamy had been tentative at first, not knowing what to expect from first class members when the only others he had met were Cage and Clarke, he felt himself relaxing along with the woman’s expression.

“Yeah,” he agreed slowly, trying to find the right words. “He invited me to dinner tonight, too, so I have a lot more Wallace rage to endure.”

The woman took a few steps toward him, extending her hand as well. Bellamy kissed the back of it, and she curtseyed, her amused expression never dropping from her face.   


She introduced herself as Nia Azgeda, and said, “Well, Darling, if you’re going to go to dinner with the Wallace’s, we’ve got to get you cleaned up.”

—--

Abby pinned the last strand of Clarke’s hair away from her face, and then leaned down to brush a kiss against her daughter’s temple.   


“You’re making me so proud, Clarke. It’s every mother’s dream that her daughter will marry someone as wonderful as Cage,”  


Clarke abruptly pulled away from her mother, twisting around in her chair so she could see her mother head-on, not just from the vanity’s mirror.   


Abby’s face had fallen, no longer looking adoring, but crestfallen and confused. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, compulsively brushing her dress with her hands.

“What you mean, Mother,” Clarke began, voice dripping with bitterness, “is that I’m marrying someone as wonderfully _rich_ as Cage Wallace. There is nothing remotely wonderful about that man besides his money.”  


Her mother’s hands dropped the dress, and reached out to strike Clarke’s face so suddenly she had barely finished talking.   


“You keep your mouth shut, you insufferable little girl! I won’t have your inability to keep quiet be the reason this marriage falls through,” Abby spat.

Clarke raised one eyebrow, and began to raise herself from her chair. Abby moved to catch her wrist, trying to push her down in the seat to cover her bruises with powder. A bright red mark in the shape of a hand sat upon her daughter’s cheek. 

Instead of allowing herself to be pushed down to sit again, Clarke swatted her mother’s hand and the powder away. She shot her mother a mirthless smile, and said, “No, Mother, I shall wear my bruises _proudly._ I want everyone to see how _wonderful_ my family can be.”  


Abby called her daughter’s name, but she didn’t even spare her a glance over her shoulder as she retreated to her bedroom, locking the door.  


——

The clock tower at the top of the dining room’s staircase loomed over Bellamy. He stood beneath it, stroking the fine wooden casing, admiring the carved craftsmen ship. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a clock so nice.

Then again, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a staircase so nice, either. His excitement to see the dining room almost outweighed his nervousness at eating with the Wallace’s.

Almost.

Just as the clock chimed seven times in a row, the door at the top of the stairs sprung open. Although Cage stood in front of her, Bellamy’s eyes locked on Clarke’s before anyone else’s. 

She looked stunning, wearing a grey-blue frilly dress that highlighted the color of her eyes. And her usually porcelain cheeks looked red, full of color, no doubt from rouge.

But as she got closer, Bellamy realized what he thought was blush was actually a red handprint, startling similar to the marks from her wrist yesterday.

He grumbled, suddenly agitated, and was preparing himself to make Cage’s skin as red as his fiancé’s, when Nia grabbed his arm.  


Bellamy hadn’t even seen her come in.

“Now is not the time, Dear,” she whispered, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow. 

Roan appeared too, holding onto his mother’s other side.   


“You have to pick your battles, Blake,” he said, sparing a quick glance behind him at the Wallace’s and Clarke, who descended the stairs with a grimace, her arm in Cage’s. “And tonight, your battle is dinner.”

——

Dante held onto her mother’s arm, and although Abby looked over her shoulder at Clarke frequently, Clarke stared ardently ahead, avoiding her mother’s sorrowful eyes.

Clarke felt relaxed, nearly floating down the staircase as if she were on a cloud. Not even Cage’s tight grip on her would upset her.  


Bellamy was coming to dinner tonight. Bellamy, who looked amazing in his suit. Although the suit was neatly pressed and perfectly tailored, his dark curls juxtaposed it. 

She was torn. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through those curls, to tame them if only a little, to feel their softness. No, she wanted nothing more. Except, maybe, to draw him.

When they sat down at the long, white-linen clad table, Clarke continued to watch Bellamy. He sat stiffly in his seat, closely examining the multiple forks placed in front of him. 

Abby, too, stared at Bellamy. While Clarke examines him through a lens of interest mixed with fondness, Abby stared at him as if he were a muddy child who just ruined her new white dress.  


As the first course, a vegetable bisque, was served, Cage cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Brooks, you’re from New York originally, or just visiting?”

Clarke shot him a dangerous look, but Bellamy didn’t let the comment phase him. “His name is Mr. Blake, actually,” Roan piped in from Bellamy’s righthand side, and Clarke smiled into her soup.

“I am from New York originally, Mr. Wallace,” Bellamy responded to Cage’s question, patting his mouth with the linen napkin.  


Cage raised an eyebrow, looking as though he had many responses, none of which were kind, but Abby spoke up first.  


“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Blake, what on Earth is a man of your status doing so far from home?” 

  
Ill-mannered though her question may have been, Clarke had to admit that she also wanted to hear the answer to her mother’s question. She placed her spoon down on the tray, listening intently.

“I was looking for my sister,” he said, and Clarke’s heartstrings pulled at the pain in his voice. “She ran away two years ago, after our mother died.”  


Every person at the table sat in silence, absorbing what Bellamy had said. Not even Cage dared make a cruel comment or send a scathing look.

Nia, sitting on Bellamy’s left, leaned over to squeeze his hand. “What made you think she’d be in Europe?” She prompted.

Bellamy smiled, albeit humorlessly. “She always about the Eiffel Tower. She’d say once we grew up and made something of ourselves, we could meet under the Eiffel Tower again.”

“But she wasn’t there?” Clarke asked, voice soft.  


Bellamy ignored Cage, who was laughing and muttering about Bellamy having said “made something of ourselves.” Instead, he looked at Clarke, focused on the sound of her voice. It wasn’t full of pity, but instead empathy.

“No, she wasn’t,” he agreed. “I spent two years following leads around Europe of where she may be, until I finally received a letter from her. She’s back home. In New York.”

There was so much more that Clarke wanted to know about him, but in that moment, she sent him a shy smile when everyone else turned away, and picked up her soupspoon once again.

——  


Dinner had exceeded Bellamy’s expectations. That being said, his expectations were incredibly low to begin with. 

The food was impeccable. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted chicken so moist, or wine so sweet, or potatoes so buttery. 

Not many comments were made at his expense, either. Naturally, Cage and Dante made multiple about him being an orphan, and being poor, and overall being dirty and manner-less, but that much was to be expected.  


The person who surprised him most was Abby. He had assumed anyone who raised a daughter like Clarke must be sensible and kind, but he was proven very wrong.

Abby took every opportunity possible to take a dig at him, commenting on everything from his hair to the dirt under his fingernails. She even went so far as to warn Nia not to get too close, less she want lice.  


When the dessert was at last cleared from the table, and the women stood to excuse themselves so that the men could smoke cigars and drink in solitude, Bellamy stood as well.  


Cage turned to father, snickering that Bellamy must actually think himself a lady. 

“Won’t you stay and have a smoke with us, Mr. Blake,” Roan asked, moving to push Bellamy’s chair out for him to once again sit.

“I must be going, actually. I fear they may be missing me down in third class,” he said, winking in Clarke’s direction. 

She took a step closer in his direction, curtseying and extending her hand to bid farewell. He took it, kissing her knuckles with a feather light kiss.  


He grabbed her delicate hand in his own larger one, and careful not to be seen, slipped a folded piece of napkin into her hand. 

With one final bow to the men at the table before him, Bellamy excused himself from the lounge, hoping beyond hope that no one would notice what he gave her.  


——  


**12 April 1912**  


“The best chefs in the world are on this ocean liner, Clarke. You have to like at least one of the cakes you’ve tried.” Abby implored, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

Clarke just grumbled and stuffed another piece of cake in her mouth, refusing to dignify her mother with a response.  


It had been the longest day of her life. First thing in the morning, Clarke was dragged from her chambers by hand maids to help her into her wedding dress, which she stood in for hours as it was altered by hand. 

After, she joined her mother, Nia Azgeda, and some of the other first class women for tea and biscuits. As they sat on the couch sipping from their China, mini cucumber sandwiches were brought to them for lunch.

  
Then, the women retired to a lounge, where they drank wine and discussed the latest gossip from their circle.   


“Can you believe that Lorelei Tsing wants to become a doctor? A woman? A _doctor_?”

“I heard from Mrs. Vie that her daughter has been courting a young man from Manhattan.”

“Isn’t it wonderful that Mount Weather recently expanded its business past the Mississippi?”  


She sat in silence, looking out the window at the endless ocean, watching the waves lap against the boat, and wishing that time would pass quicker. 

Even as dinner passed that evening, Clarke remained in silence. She finally listened to her mother’s advice: “ _seen and not heard, Clarke. Never heard.”_  


So now, as she suffered through dessert in the form of wedding planning, Clarke was completely restless. She had spent more time with her mother than she ever wished to, and lost too many brain cells from the mindless chatter of rich women.   


She finished chewing a vanilla with buttercream frosting and strawberry garnishes, and while it was a little too sweet for her taste, she told her mother that this cake was _the one._ The one she couldn’t live without.  


The lie was worth it, because Abby finally excused her from wedding planning to rest early.

As soon as Clarke saw the light extinguish in her mother’s chambers, Clarke through on an overcoat and quietly closed the door behind her. She practically skipped down the hallway, down toward where Bellamy was waiting for her. 

——  


_Meet me where we first met. Tomorrow night at 22:00. I’ll be waiting for you._

Bellamy hoped that Clarke understood the note. While they first laid eyes upon one another when Bellamy sat on the lower decks attempting to read, the first words they had actually uttered to one another occurred on the bow of the boat on the upper deck.

He stood in the shadows, pacing back and forth. Luckily, just like that first night on the ship, no one else was on the deck. Everyone else must have chosen to sit by the fireplaces indoors instead of braving the high sea’s winds.

Just as Bellamy’s panic was reaching full height (Did Cage catch her? Does she not want to come? What if I’m reading into this too much, and dinner really was just to thank me?), the light pattering sound of footsteps echoed along the deck.

Clarke, dressed in a simple beige dress with a maroon ribbon tied around her waist, appeared in front of him. She looked around her, not quite seeing Bellamy in the shadows, but he noticed she remained a safe distance from the railing.   


Bellamy stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, and Clarke’s face radiated relief.

She was here. She had come for him. Everything was fine.

Clarke took two large steps, closing the distance between herself and Bellamy. She tucked her chin, resting her cheek against his beating chest. He tangled his hand through her hair, which rested down on her shoulders for the first time since he met her, and cupped the back of her head.   


Finally, she pulled back and tilted her head up to see his eyes. His eyes glinted mischievously, and before Clarke could register what was happening, Bellamy spun her out of his arms, holding only on to her hand.  


Then, he began to run, Clarke in tow.

——  


The wind blew her blonde hair behind her, and Clarke used her free hand to hold up the skirt of her dress as she ran.   


Bellamy’s laugh echoed through the silent deck, reminiscent of a child’s when being thrown in the air then caught again.   


When Bellamy finally slid to a stop, and Clarke crashed firmly into his back while panting, she looked around to see where he lead them.   


They stood in a slightly damp room, with the music of a loud fiddle bouncing off the walls, and a young girl with pig tails dancing in the center. Around her, people of all shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities, clapped along to the beat.

Just when Clarke thought she had finally caught her breath, Bellamy pulled her by the hand again into the center of the circle.   


The beat of the fiddle picked up. Bellamy tapped his feet to the beat.

Left, right, left, left, right, both, right  


She mimicked his motions, still holding her skirt up with her free hand, her heels clacking noisily along the wood.

Bellamy pulled her toward him using his hand that still held her own, and tucked her arm though his. Facing opposite directions, they skipped in circles. 

Faster, and faster, and faster, and faster still.

Someone was giggling. A happy, high-pitched sound that Clarke hadn’t heard since she was a child.  


She realized with a start that the sound was coming from her. 

——

Murphy came stumbling over to Bellamy, ale sloshing out of his mug as he wrapped one arm around Bellamy’s waist.  


He sang, terribly off-key, his own rendition of a traditional Irish song. Bellamy couldn’t hold in his snicker at the lyrics Murphy made up.

“It’s an Irish life for me/ finishing bottles of mead cuz they warm me tum/ rocking down in the boat/ waves knock me on me bum/ it’s an Irish life for me”  


He even clapped along to the beat of the fiddle, but tapped his foot to a different rhythm entirely.   


Pulling away from the half-embrace, Bellamy beckoned Clarke over from where she sat nearby, a similar mug of ale in her hands, as she seemed engrossed in conversation with an Italian woman.

She happily excused herself, and meandered over the Bellamy and Murphy, a carefree smile on her face.  


Bellamy threw an arm around her shoulders when she arrived, gently turning her in Murphy’s direction.

“Clarke,” he began, “I’d like you to meet one of my best mates, John Murphy”  


She moved to curtsey, but before she could, Murphy pulled her into a tight bear hug, lifting her feet off the floor and spinning her around. 

“So you’re the girl my Bellamy can’t stop thinking about, huh?” Murphy tried to shoot a wink in Clarke’s direction, but in his drunken state, he could only blink. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Bellamy shoved him playfully, and then turned to Clarke. “Just ignore him, Clarke. Murphy doesn’t know his head from his ass right now.”

“Shame,” she responded as she turned away, making her way towards the center of the circle once again. “I quite liked the idea that you were thinking of me.”

She winked once in his direction before tossing her head back, hair billowing, as she danced in time with the song.

——

When the music finally died down, and mothers began to haul their children away to go to bed, Clarke collapsed on the floor into Bellamy’s arms.   


Her coat had long since been shed, and she leaned her head back on his shoulder, letting her hair tickle the exposed skin of his neck.

He smelled vaguely of sweat and salt water, but to Clarke it was the most refreshing scent ever– much better than cigars and whiskey.

She lost track of how long she sat there, her head against his shoulders, their breathing synchronized. She only opened her eyes once more when Bellamy shifted beneath her, trying to extricate himself from where they sat entangled.

Nearly everyone else had already left the room, leaving just the pair of them and an older man, who wore only one shoe and appeared heavily intoxicated.

Bellamy offered her a hand to stand, and in that moment, she didn’t care where they were going, as long as it was together.  


He hummed softly, a lullaby that Clarke’s father used to sing to her when she was a little girl who couldn’t fall asleep. She hummed along, and they walked peacefully side by side, neither one of them saying a word.   


When they reached a looming steel door in front of them, Bellamy let go of her hand long enough to shoulder it open, and then he held the door for her to walk through before him. 

Inside was a large room filled with cars and furniture and large boxes, all of the things people were bringing to New York along with them. 

Bellamy ran his fingers along the edge of a car, his expression longing. Clarke squeezed his bicep, silently asking about his thoughts.

  
“I’ve never driven one before,” he admitted quietly.

A smile burst onto her face, and she skipped around him to throw the door open. She climbed inside, and then reached down to extend a hand to help him.

“No time like the present then, huh?”

Bellamy climbed inside, sitting in the driver’s side with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped in both of Clarke’s in her lap.

His grin was contagious, a matching lopsided one erupting onto Clarke’s own face.

Without knowing what came over her, she closed the distance between them, lightly pressing her lips against his.

The kiss was messy, both of them smiling too much that it was more teeth than lips, but it was the best kiss Clarke had ever experienced.

Bellamy removed his hand from the wheel, moving it to cup the back of Clarke’s head and pull her flush against him. Her own hands carded through his hair, finally feeling the curls beneath her fingers she’d been thinking about for days.  


Abruptly, Bellamy pushed her away, his freckled cheeks becoming red. “You’re engaged to another man,” he said, voice somewhat husky. “We can’t do this. It’s wrong!”  


Clarke reached forward, using her thumb to try and straighten out the crinkle between his brows. He sucked in a breath at her touch.  


“You’re right. I am engaged,” she lamented. He couldn’t help the disappointment that coursed through him. “But I don’t want to be.”

This time, when Clarke closed the distance between them, Bellamy didn’t pull away.  


——

Their second kiss was deeper than their first, with Clarke now practically on Bellamy’s lap she was so close.  


Her hands came up to his chest, slowly undoing his buttons with deft fingers. Finally, the last button came loose and his freckled chest laid exposed between them.

She placed her palms flat on his pectoral muscles, and her icy hands shocked his warm chest, but he didn’t flinch.  


Their kiss was not rushed, and Bellamy ran his hands up and down her arms, finally landing on her back, pushing gently between her shoulder blades to close the minimal distance between them.  


With a quick peck to his lips once more, Clarke pulled away again, looking suddenly shy. Despite her small blush, her eyes never left his as she said, “Can you help me with my dress?” 

Bellamy gulped, but allowed her to guide his fingers to the ribbon on her back. She turned around, no longer facing him, allowing Bellamy better access. 

He untied the ribbon, revealing a row of small buttons keeping the dress closed.

One at a time, Bellamy unhooked the buttons, ghosting his knuckles along her spine each time more skin became exposed. 

With the final button undone, he gently brushed her hair from the back of her neck, and swept it over one side. With his hand on the opposite shoulder, he placed his lips in the crook where her shoulder met her neck. 

She shivered beneath his touch, but whether from the removal of her layers or because of his kiss, Bellamy wasn’t exactly sure.   


Clarke turned around, facing Bellamy once more, and her blue eyes were darker than he’d ever seen— practically all pupil. 

Her lips crashed into his again, but gone was their slow pace, replaced with a sudden desperation. 

As Bellamy held onto one of her hips, squeezing tightly, and his other hand lay flat against the small of her back, Clarke reached between them to undo his belt buckle. 

His hand trailed from her back to her neck, pushing her head and hair to the side to expose her pulse point to him. He kissed hot, wet kisses from the corner of her lips down to the base of her neck at her collarbone, his hands brushing the spaghetti strap of her slip off her shoulder and down her body as he continued to kiss lower and lower. 

Clarke finally got his belt undone, moving to push his pants down to his ankles. He shifted, raising his hips off the seat enough to help her. 

  
Now skin-to-skin, Bellamy flipped their positions so Clarke lay against the seat cushion and he hovered on top of her. His lips traveled lower still, from her collarbones down to her sternum, until finally landing on her hard nipple. 

He took one nipple in his mouth, his hand coming up to roll the other between his fingers. Clarke’s back arched involuntarily, and her fingers flew to grasp his curls.  


Clarke rubbed her thighs together beneath him, trying to garner more friction. Smirking, Bellamy’s hand released her breast and traveled to her panties.  


He slipped two fingers under the band, eyes meeting hers to seek approval.  


She nodded once, breathless.   


As Bellamy kissed the valley between her breasts, he experimentally placed one finger in her already wet entrance.

Clarke’s hips bucked, grinding against Bellamy’s growing bulge.  


Bellamy removed his finger, only to thrust two back in. He curled them, hitting her front wall, and Clarke whimpered his name, begging for more. Anything to release the tension building inside of her.

Clarke pulled Bellamy up toward her by the hair, kissing him sloppily down his neck as her muscles jerked unconsciously. 

“Bell,” she moaned, her breathy voice driving him wild. “I need you.”

He drove his fingers faster, and Clarke gasped. “Need me?” He teased, voice low  


She hooked one leg around his waist, trying to minimize the space between them. Pulling him by his curls once again, she breathed, “Not just your fingers.”

Bellamy nearly came undone on the spot. 

He obliged, widening the space between them long enough to pull down his briefs. Clarke whined at the sudden loss of contact, but quickly stopped when he lined himself up with her entrance.  


He pushed inside her, gently at first, and then picked up speed once they found their rhythm together. Clarke’s nails raked down his back, and Bellamy groaned.

As his thrusts became quicker and harder, he moved one of Clarke’s ankles to rest on his shoulder, hitting a spot so deep Clarke became breathless.

Bellamy, too close to finishing, reached between them and furiously rubbed at her clit, in rhythmic circles. 

The tension that had been building inside Clarke suddenly became too much, and her muscles shook. As she clenched, Bellamy let himself go as well, his face a mask of ecstasy.  


Clarke kept her legs securely around his body, and the pair laid together panting. With one last languid kiss, Bellamy pulled out of her. 

He handed Clarke his handkerchief from his pocket to clean herself up with, and the pair slowly began to dress themselves again, stealing kisses whenever they locked eyes.  


Once they were finally dressed, Bellamy hopped from the driver’s side door, offering Clarke his hand to help her down.   


Clarke looked at the watch on her wrist, and seeing that it was well after 1 in the morning, excused herself.

She pecked his cheek, and then ran out through the steel doors they’d come in from. Bellamy watched her go, his heart aching to run after her.

——  


**13 April 1912**  


Clarke woke up late the next morning, the sun in the sky nearly directly above the ship, signaling noontime. 

A smile was still plastered on her face, her hair tangled from sleep and having Bellamy’s fingers roaming through it the previous night. 

She rolled out of bed, heading directly to the shower. Hopefully standing under the steamy water would help clear her head. 

When she finally found the strength to extricate herself from the watery heaven, she brushed through her hair enough times to remove each tangle, and opened the bathroom door to return to her chambers.

Her chambers, however, were not empty. On her bed sat Roan Azgeda.

Clarke pulled the towel tighter around her body, glancing rapidly from side to side.  


“What are you doing here? Does anyone know you’re here?” she hissed.

  
Roan put his hands up in front of him, trying his hardest to appear non-threatening.   


“Of course no one knows I’m here! Keep your voice down,” he whispered harshly, and Clarke had to strain her ears to hear him. “I want to help you.”

The hand that had unconsciously been twirling a loose string from her towel stilled, and Clarke cocked her head to the side, one eyebrow raised.  


“Help me? And why would I need your help?”  


Roan stood up, and walked over to her still-open chamber doors. In one quick motion, he shut them and locked them. 

“Because I know how you can spend the day with Blake.”  


——

Although Bellamy had been awake for hours, chatting with some of the people on his deck and watching the young girls play hula-hoop, Murphy didn’t roll out of bed until afternoon.

When he finally emerged onto the deck, forearm shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness, Bellamy involuntarily chuckled.  


His friend looked a complete mess, day old stubble growing on his face, normally neat hair sticking up in every direction.   


He grumbled a hello, and then sank with his back against the wall to a seated position on the floor. 

Bellamy joined him, leaning his head back against the steel wall, eyes closed and breathing in the cool ocean air.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your meditation.”

His eyes sprang open, level with a light pink skirt. He raised his head, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up, and smiled when his eyes locked on a familiar pair of blue.

Bellamy jumped to his feet, moving to help Clarke sit down despite her large skirt. 

“Meditation? I don’t know about that bullshit, but we were just about to start a game of poker,” Murphy objected, already shuffling a deck of cards that Bellamy hadn’t even seen him pull out. “Name of the game is Five Card Stud. Highest hand wins. Ante is a pound, or five US if that’s your style.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, but fished into her pockets for a pound regardless. “That’s an awfully high ante for a game I don’t know how to play. Where did you come across so much money, anyway?”  


Like a dog’s mouth watering at the sight of a roasted chicken, Murphy practically salivated at the sight of Clarke’s coins. 

“Murphy’s been cleaning out pretty much everyone on our deck. He’s been itching for a new partner for days,” Bellamy piped in.

Murphy slid the deck of cards over to Clarke, asking her to cut the deck, but before she could, Bellamy picked up the cards and started shuffling once more. Ignoring Murphy’s glare, Bellamy shrugged in Clarke’s direction and said, “I don’t trust him.”  


Bellamy placed the newly shuffled deck on the floor in front of Clarke, and she cut it, and then handed it back to Bellamy to deal left.  


“Now,” Murphy began, his eyes glinting, “Royal flush is highest, then straight flush, and after is obviously four of a kind,” he rattled off, counting on his fingers as he explained. “Let’s see, then, there’s a full house and a flush, and of course straight comes after that. Then there’s trips, two pair, pair, and finally, if you’re really awful and can’t do any better, high card. So now you know the rules, you ready?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes and said, “those aren’t even the rules, you moron. That’s just how you win, not how you play.”

He turned to Clarke, and explained each rule, when to bet, when to fold, and when to bluff. He patiently answered each of her questions while Murphy rapped his knuckles against the wooden floor restlessly.  


After Murphy cleaned Clarke out countless times, loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen that her tell is when she almost imperceptibly crinkles her left eye, Bellamy tried to urge them to quit. “Sorry, Clarke, but this is honestly kind of hard to watch. Why don’t you guys just stop and we can go for a walk or something?”  


Clarke shot him a murderous glare, and he immediately shut his mouth. “I do not,” she said slowly, carefully enunciating every word, “quit!” She turned away from Bellamy, her hair flipping over her shoulder as she snapped her attention to Murphy.   


“Hit me again,” she demanded.

Murphy rolled his eyes, but shuffled the cards anyway. “This isn’t Blackjack, Love.”

Bellamy tried to peak over Clarke’s shoulder, but she hid the cards from his view before he could see.   


When Murphy bet two pounds, Bellamy noticed Clarke hesitate. She’d already lost ten pounds to his friend, which was more money than he had ever held in his life. 

After a moment, she fished into her pocket, and dumped every last coin she had, splaying them on the floor between herself and Murphy. Watching her closely, Bellamy noticed Clarke’s left eye twitch.  


His eyes widened, and he didn’t have the money to call, so he turned his cards over for her to see.

Three aces, two kings.

Bellamy gulped, knowing it would be a difficult hand to beat.

With an enormous sigh, Clarke threw her cards down, face up.

Four queens.

Murphy scowled, but reached across the pot to shake her hand anyway.

Bellamy jumped up from where he sat crisscrossed on the floor, pulling Clarke up too to swing her around.   


Murphy pulled himself to a standing position, and handed over the pot he had scooped up to Clarke. With a grimace, he pulled a small bottle of whiskey from his pocket, and took a swig.  


Clarke stole the bottle from his hands, quickly downing some of the burning liquid, then threw it back to him, which Murphy just barely caught.

She leaned over to peck Bellamy’s lips quickly, and then ran up the stairs to the upper deck, stuffing her change in her dress as she went.  


His lips tasted like whiskey after that.

——  


**14 April 1912**  


Clarke awoke suddenly when she felt the mattress dip under someone’s weight. She shot up, shielding her chest with the sheet, and saw that she sat face-to-face with Cage.  


“Clarke,” he said, “I’m _so_ happy to see that you’re awake. I do hope you’re feeling better from yesterday?”

Momentarily confused, she opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut. Of course! She was supposed to have been sick in bed all day yesterday, which was why she didn’t have to sit through wedding planning with Abby or attend meals with Cage. 

Cage raised an eyebrow at her lapse, but said nothing. Instead, he stood up and began to pace at the foot of her bed. 

“If you’re not, we can just stay in bed all day. I’ll read a book, or calculate the business’ profits, and you can write in your journal or whatever it is you like to do.”  


Clarke didn’t bother to correct him, focusing instead on the fact he wanted to spend the day with her. “You go on without me, Dear. I wouldn’t want you catching what I have.”

He appraised her, from her body still covered by the thin sheet to the top of her head. “Nonsense,” he declared. “We’re going to be married. I should take care of you when you’re sick. In sickness and in health, right?”

She smiled tightly, weighing her options. She could stay in bed all day, avoiding her mother and drawing in her sketchpad, but she’d be stuck with Cage. Or, she could miraculously heal, and spend the day listening to gossip and drinking tea in the lounge.  


Choosing the lesser of two evils, Clarke responded, “I appreciate that, but I’m actually feeling quite better today. I think the sleep was helpful. I’ll just get dressed and join the other women upstairs, and we can catch up for lunch?”

His face remained emotionless, but he took a step closer to hold her hands and kiss her cheek. Clarke had to fight her instincts not to recoil at his touch.

“I’ll join you for tea. I was rather hoping I’d spend the day with you.”

Clarke just nodded, pasting a smile on her face. There had to be a reason Cage was being so nice to her, and she intended to find out what it was.

  
Together, they walked arm in arm to the upper balcony, where a handful of women sat lounging on the sofas. Clarke sat down, and Cage sat next to her so closely that their legs touched.  


He squeezed her knee fondly, one of the softest touches he’d given her. 

“Well, Cage,” Nia voiced from across the coffee table, “to what do we owe the pleasure of having you join us today?”  


Clarke snickered at the woman’s dry tone, but she passed it off as a cough. Cage patted her back, hitting too gently to be helpful.  


When she stopped _coughing,_ Cage turned his attention back to Nia and said, “can’t a man spend time with his fiancé without a valid reason?”  


Nia rolled her eyes, and very dryly, responded, “No.”

Cage’s grip tightened on her knee.   


After hours of mindless chatting and endless eating, Clarke having heard the story of the Azgeda’s came into money for the seventh time that week, her saving grace came in the form of Dante Wallace.

The elder Wallace entered the salon, trailed by his bodyguard Sargent Lovejoy. Dante tapped Cage lightly on the shoulder, and with a wet peck to Clarke’s cheek, he excused him to the other side of the room.

Clarke strained her ears, trying desperately to hear the hushed conversation, but she heard nothing besides her mother’s excited warbling about the upcoming nuptials.

From the corner of her eye, Clarke noticed Cage and Lovejoy staring in her direction, but as soon as she turned her head, they were already looking away, engrossed in another conversation with Dante. 

Cage returned to where Clarke sat on the sofa, and he kneeled in front of her, taking both of her hands in his.  


“I’m so sorry, my Love, but duty calls. I’ll see you later tonight, ok?”

She nodded, trying not to appear too eager. If he noticed, hopefully he chalked her excitement up to their reunion that evening. 

Waiting only a few minutes after the men left the balcony, Clarke stood up to excuse herself. Abby stood too, brushing the back of her hand against Clarke’s forehead to take her temperature.

  
“You don’t feel sick to me, Clarke,” Abby said slowly, treading lightly where her hot-tempered daughter was concerned. “Are you sure you didn’t just have something in passing?”  


Nia stood up and walked over to the Griffin women, placing the back of her hand on Clarke’s forehead as well.   


“She feels warm to me, Abby. Maybe it’s for the best if she lies down some more, and tomorrow hopefully she’ll be ready for an entire day of planning. You wouldn’t want her to be too sick for that, would you?”

Abby contemplated for a minute, looking stricken, but relented. She told Clarke to return to her chambers, and lock the door to rest for the night.  


On her way out of the lounge, Clarke spared a grateful glance at Nia, whose lips twitched in what Clarke thought may actually be a smile.  


——  


As the night fell, Bellamy tucked his book under his pillow once more, his thumb grazing the framed photo beneath it.   


He opened the back of the frame, and worn, folded parchment fell out, splayed before him on his twin bed.  


_8 March 1912_

_Bell,_

_I’m sorry. I should have known better than to think you wouldn’t follow me. You’d follow me to Hell and back again, if I needed you to._

_I found what I didn’t even realize I was looking for — and at the Eiffel Tower, of all places, too. I met a young man, who had fled from the Ottoman now that tensions are growing, and he and I have returned to New York together._

_Lincoln and I will be married this autumn. I hope you’ll be there to give me away._

_I love you. Get home safely._

_My most sincere regards,_  


_O_

Bellamy carefully folded the parchment once more, careful not to tear the delicate paper. He tucked it into the frame, sealing it in place.   


The door to his room swung open, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in the room he shared with Murphy and five others.

To his surprise, though, Clarke stood at the foot of his bed, one curl falling loose from her pinned up hair, cheeks slightly flushed.  


He patted the bed beside him, where he sat with his back against the wall and frame in his lap. Clarke flopped gracelessly beside him, then removed the frame from his lap as carefully as if she were lifting a sleeping baby.

“Your sister,” she said, but it wasn’t a question. He nodded in response, and Clarke stared at him with kind eyes, silently telling him he didn’t have to elaborate if she didn’t want to.

“She’s getting married. Told me through a letter. When this boat finally docks in New York, I’ll not only see O for the first time in two years, but her fiancé as well.”

Clarke brought the frame closer to her face, examining the picture inside closely.  


“She’s beautiful,” Clarke breathed.

“Yeah, she looks just like me,” he responded with a cheeky grin, and she shoved him playfully.  


“I can’t wait to meet her,” Clarke said, no longer looking at him, but at her hands in her lap instead.  


She missed the grin that erupted across his face, as bright as the stars in the night sky, but he wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders, hoping to convey his love for her in that moment.

——  


Clarke and Bellamy walked hand in hand toward the bow of the boat, their steps the only sound around them. The sound of their walking echoed so greatly Clarke almost thought that someone else was following them.  


But when she turned around, they were alone.  


The pair stood nearby the railing where they first met, and when Bellamy climbed up the first rung, Clarke stifled a scream.  


They were _not_ going to repeat what happened earlier that week.

  
Instead, he remained perched on that first rung, his head thrown back as the wind blew his mane of hair.   


He turned toward her, cheeks wind burned, and extended his hand. “Come on,” he said, and she didn’t even need the starlight to inform her that he was grinning widely. She could hear it in his voice.

Clarke placed one hand on the railing, but hesitated. She didn’t want to climb up again, not with the bad memories associated with the last time she stood here.

Bellamy tilted her chin up so they were staring eye to eye. “Don’t you trust me?” He asked, and his brown eyes bore into her so intensely she could do nothing but nod.  


She allowed him to guide her onto the first rung, and his hands securely held onto her waist. Tentatively, she let go of the rail in front of her, allowing Bellamy to hold her up as the wind rushed through her open fingertips.

The rush of the air around her sucked the breath from her lungs, leaving Clarke howling with hysterical laughter. She closed her eyes, and focused on the sensation— her hair billowing wildly behind her like a flag in the breeze, her hands trying to grasp on to the wind, only to grasp nothing.

“I’m flying, Bell!” She called, voice loud but light in the breeze. “I’m flying!”  


She closed her eyes again and flew some more.  


——

Bellamy laid flat on his back on the deck of the ship, Clarke on her side with her head tucked into the crook of his neck.

They laid in silence, Bellamy searching for the heroes from his books in the sky, Clarke looking at him. Their breathing synchronized, and Bellamy felt more relaxed than he had since Octavia first disappeared.  


“I’m leaving him,” Clarke whispered, speaking so quietly Bellamy thought he had imagined it. But no, not even in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine Clarke would say _that_.  


He lifted his head off the floor, craning his neck to look directly at her. Her eyes were so sincere, so shy, his heart swelled.

Ducking his head, he placed a chaste kiss on her lips. 

  
“When this boat docks at Ellis Island, that will be the last time I ever see Cage Wallace.”  


Bellamy ran his hands through her hair, stopped at the base of her neck to hold her close to him. He dipped his head, his lips grazing her forehead.

“Run away with me,” Bellamy breathed, his hope palpable between them.  


“I want nothing more,” she said, closing the distance between their lips. 

Bellamy rolled to his side, adjusting from his awkward angle. Clarke’s hands rested flat again his chest, idly playing with the buttons of his shirt. 

He wrapped one hand around her, pulling her flush against him, and Clarke moved to kiss his neck.  


She sucked right above the collar of his shirt, shifting to lay on top of him, when a voice spoke from behind them.

“Well, isn’t this sweet?” It drawled, dripping with sarcasm. 

They both shot up faster than a bullet, scrambling to their feet.

Lovejoy stood mere feet away from them, appraising them with a snarl. He reached into his pocket, but Bellamy and Clarke didn’t stick around to find out what he had.

Clarke kicked off her heels and threw them at Lovejoy, hitting him square in the face. She laced her fingers through Bellamy’s, and she spun on her toe, the two of them racing away down the starboard side of the ship.  


——

It had been years since Clarke had fun so fast. She could remember the last time, running through her garden in Cambridge, moving so rapidly she was sure just one more step might send her flying through the air.

Wells had been chasing her, hot on her tail, stretching his long arm out in front of him, trying to graze her shoulder blades the way a desperate man may grasp at straws. 

When he finally tagged her, both of them collapsed on the ground, panting. Wells rolled sideways, barreling down the grassy hill. After a moment’s hesitation, Clarke rolled too, spinning faster and faster until crashing into Wells at the bottom.  


Abby had been livid, berating Clarke for hour for ruining her dress with grass stains. Clarke hadn’t been allowed to play with Wells again. 

Now, Clarke hiked up her skirt and ran just as fast. Instead of her best friend, however, the man flailing wildly in the space between them as he desperately tried to catch her, had no intention of laughing with her when caught.

Bellamy shouldered open a door in front of them, and held it open for Clarke to pass inside before him.   


The door opener to a boiler room, where steam blew from hot pipes and the damp air was suffocating. The only other way out of the room was a long ladder leading into darkness, but after sharing a quick reaffirming nod between themselves, the pair began to descend. 

At the bottom, Bellamy lifted Clarke underneath her armpits so she could jump down the remaining rungs, and they shot off again.

Above them, Lovejoy stepped onto the highest rung of the ladder.

Bellamy lead Clarke through a room as hot as an oven, where soot covered men shoveled coal into burning fires.  


Lovejoy remained only a few strides behind them, but one of the men removed his shovel so forcefully from the flames that it careened right in Lovejoy, sending him sprawling on the floor.

Bellamy hollered with joy, but Clarke tugged him further still. They slipped through the cargo room, where only two short nights ago they had lied together in the car, and arrived alone on the starboard side of the ship. 

They slammed the door behind them, sliding a wooden bench in front of the door in hopes of slowing Lovejoy down.  


_If_ he found them, of course.

Just as Bellamy wrapped his arm around Clarke’s waist, holding her firmly against him and planting a kiss against her temple, the entire boat rocked, sending the pair onto the floor side by side.

A horrible screeching sound echoed through the night, the sound of grinding metal. The floor vibrated as large chunks of ice landed with a thud on the deck. 

The ship had crashed.

  
——

**15 April 1912**

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Clarke,” Bellamy pleaded, but he allowed Clarke to tug him along anyway. 

“She’s still my mother, Bell. Whether or not we see eye-to-eye, she’s still my mother. Mr. Sinclair told me that there aren’t enough lifeboats for everyone on board, which means we need to get to them first.”

He tried to pull them to a stop, dragging his heels, but Clarke pulled him with unprecedented force. “That’s exactly why we should go directly to the boats, Clarke,” he argued.

She turned her head quickly, shooting him an unimpressed look, her eyebrow dangerously raised. “Not without my mother.”

Her head returned facing forward, her hair flipping over her shoulder.

He didn’t argue again.  


When they finally arrived in Clarke’s first class chambers, her mother jumped up from the couch, sweeping her daughter into a tight hug.

Abby looked her up and down, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Thank God you’re ok, my sweet, sweet girl,” she cried.  


Her mother finally released her, turning to Bellamy for the first time. She lunged toward him, small hands balled into fists. “You monster!” she shouted.

Bellamy stood gaping like a fish out of water, not sure what had transpired between them. Sure, Abby hadn’t exactly liked him at dinner, but she was a far cry from threatening violence.  


Clarke called his name, trying to reach hip, but Cage grabbed her firmly by the waist and held her still. She screamed, thrashing in his arms and scratching, but he gave no indication whatsoever of being in pain.  


Just then, Lovejoy entered the chambers, flanked by security guards on either side. He cradled his wrist close to his chest, an egg on his head from where he sprawled on the boiler room floor.  


“That’s him, Officers,” he announced, and Clarke screamed louder. “That’s the man who assaulted myself and Miss. Griffin.”

  
After stomping on Cage’s foot repeatedly, he released her. Clarke spun on her heel, driving her knee forcefully into his crotch. Cage collapsed onto the floor.  


“You Asshole!” She spat, marching right up to Lovejoy. “He didn’t lay a hand on me!”

Dante stepped between Clarke and Lovejoy, turning to address the guards. He placed one arm around Clarke’s shoulders, a gesture she knew was far from paternal, and used his free hand to delicately roll her dress’s sleeve up. Her yellowing spiral bruise in the shape of a hand was on full display.   


“Then who gave you these bruises, Miss. Griffin?” When she didn’t answer immediately, instead sputtering at the absurdity of the situation, Dante continued speaking. “Take him away, Men. And make sure he stays far away from my family.”

Bellamy was kicked in the back of his knees, sending him tumbling to the floor. His wrists were roughly placed in manacles, and he was hauled to his feet again by his hair. The guards lead him down the hallway, away from Clarke for what he feared may be the last time.  


——  


When Cage regained a standing position, he closed the distance between himself and Clarke in two strides, the wound his arm and slapped her across the face.  


Her hand floor of its own accordance to her cheek, and her eyes widened. 

Cage moved to step closer to her again, his eyes burning with rage. Before he could take another step, Clarke spit blood onto his shoes.  


She smiled at him, her white teeth coated red. Abby shouted hysterically, but Clarke ignored her. She moved to the coat rack by the door, reaching for her overcoat.

Her fiancé roughly grabbed her wrist, pulling her flush against his body. She refused to cower, meeting his eyes straight on.

“If you ever try to pull another stunt like you did today, I will kill you,” he threatened, voice low and murderous.

With her free wrist, she swung an umbrella from the rack and knocked him over the head with its handle. He reeled backwards, and Clarke stepped free from his grasp.

  
“Good,” she thought to herself, “now he and Lovejoy can match.”

  
Aloud, she said, “I’d like to see you try.”

She left her fiancé on the floor as she slammed the chamber door shut behind her. 

She had to find Bellamy.  


——

  
The guards shoved Bellamy roughly to the ground, undoing his cuffs only long enough to secure him to the pole. 

  
Laughing, one of the guards threw the key to the other side of the room, then the pair left, swinging the brig’s door shut behind them.

  
Bellamy wracked his brain trying to figure out a way to escape. There was no doubt in his mind that Cage would retaliate for the way Clarke had just embarrassed him, and he wanted nothing more than to go help her.

  
He lunged forward as far as he could, hoping to reach the key with his foot, but it was no use. As he stood there, handcuffed to the pole, water rushed inside the room. 

  
First, just his shoes were wet, followed by the cuffed part of his pants. “This ship is unsinkable,” he thought, refusing to worry.

  
Only when his knees became soaked, and the water kept rising, did he begin to worry.   


——

The boat was in chaos. People ran in every which direction, shouting their loved ones’ names, trying to push their way toward the lifeboats on the upper deck.  


Clarke, however, pushed herself through the crowd in the opposite direction.

She’d run into Mr. Sinclair, who tried in vain to drag her from the lower stairwells.  


“This ship is sinking, Miss. Griffin, and I know I don’t have to tell you what that means. You did the math yourself,” he urged.  


She ignored his pleading, quickly describing her predicament. 

  
He told her how to get to the ships detainment center on the very bottom floor of the ship. “Take the elevator as far as you can go, then exit left. Follow that hallway to the end, then go down the stairs. Once you’ve reached the bottom floor, go to the third door on the right. That’s where they would have kept him.”

Clarke hugged Mr. Sinclair quickly, hoping to convey her gratitude with her arms. He kissed the back of her right hand, looking as though he wished to say more.   


She bid him farewell as the elevator doors dinged, signaling its arrival. She pushed the doors open, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped a beat at the flickering lights inside.  


“Goodbye, Miss. Griffin,” Sinclair whispered as the elevator door closed between them. “And good luck.”

——

Bellamy shimmied his arms higher up the pole, stretching his legs as far as he could to kick the nearby chair.

It took four tries, but he finally had enough leverage to climb onto the chair. The room was filling fast, the water already up to Bellamy’s waist.  


At this rate, he figured he only had twenty minutes more, max.

——

When the elevator doors opened at its lowest level, the operator pushed Clarke out as water rushed inside. She fell forward, finding herself underwater.

Quickly, Clarke righted herself, planting her feet firmly on the ground. The water was rising quickly, already to her mid-shins, and she wasn’t even on the lowest deck yet.

“I’m so sorry, Miss,” the operator called as the elevator ascended once more. “But I don’t intend to die down here.”  


She muttered to herself about cowardice, and set off down the hall alone.   


Going left off the elevator brought her to the end of a short hallway, leading down a wide set of carpeted stairs.  


Clarke gulped. The water at the bottom of the stairs looked about waist high, and more water kept rushing in at a rapid pace.

Without a bottle of liquid courage at her disposal, Clarke took a deep breath then descended the staircase.

The current at the bottom pulled her, nearly sweeping her off her feet entirely. She held onto a metal railing along the edge of the hallway, pulling herself fist over first to the third door on the right.

  
Despite the frigid temperature of the water, Clarke was flushed, nearly breaking a sweat from her exertion. 

  
Finally, she reached the third door on the right, using her entire body weight to pry it open against the water’s pressure.

  
Her shoulders sagged with relief at what she saw inside. Bellamy stood on a chair, just his ankles submerged in the water.

  
Her relief, however, was short lived. Bellamy precariously balanced an ax between his knees, awkwardly shimmying his cuffed hands down the pipe toward it.

——  


“What on Earth,” a woman shouted, breaking Bellamy from his reverie, “do you think you’re doing?”  


The ax dropped from between his legs, plunking into the water below. Bellamy looked up in surprise.

Clarke stood mere feet away from him, hands on her hips.   


Despite his situation, Bellamy smiled. “What? Did you expect me to just do nothing?”

She rolled her eyes, and dropped to her knees to retrieve the ax from the floor.

He watched as she took a large breath of air, and then submerged completely underneath the dark ocean water.

She resurfaced, and Bellamy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.   


She held no ax.

With a resolute expression, Clarke dove underneath the surface again, but came up empty-handed once more.  


“Not to sound completely ungrateful, Clarke, but we’re kind of on a time crunch here,” he urged, the water having risen to his shins’ level already.

  
She didn’t even take the time to shoot him a scowl, instead she moved immediately to dive under the water once more.

This time, she held the ax.

In one fluid motion, she swung the ax over her head and down toward the pipe.  


And missed. Badly.

Bellamy jumped down from the chair, standing level with Clarke as she raised the ax once more. He shimmied his hands as far from the cuffs as possible, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that Clarke wouldn’t amputate his hands.

She struck the ax toward the pipe for a second time, and hit his cuffs.  


With a _plink,_ they sank into the water.

——  


Luckily, Clarke’s trek to the stairs proved easier than her walk from the elevator. They moved along the current, letting the rushing water half-carry them toward the staircase.  


Their luck, however, did not last long. The elevator at the top of the stairs no longer worked, the excess water having short-circuited its electricity.

Bellamy and Clarke were forced to wander around the floor, in search of a way to the top deck and the lifeboats.   


The lower halls were desolate, save for one man in an ill-fitted suit. He ran through the halls, shoving past the pair.  


Bellamy caught his wrist, yelling that the boat was sinking and he was going the wrong way. The exit was nowhere near the direction he was running.  


“¡La maleta! Necesito cogerla. Todas mis cosas están allí, y no podría sobrevivir sin esas.”**  


The man ripped his arm from Bellamy’s grasp, continuing to head further in the flooding basement. The couple looked at each other stricken, but knew better than to follow him lest they face his same doom.

After many twists and turns, the sound of panicked yelling echoed through the hallways. Clarke and Bellamy took off at a run.

  
At the end of one hallway stood a mob of people, all wearing the signature tattered clothing of the third class. Murphy stood at the front of the group, yelling furiously and shaking a metal gate.

Bellamy and Clarke pushed themselves to the front of the group, Clarke gently putting her hand on Murphy’s shoulder to get his attention.

He looked up startled at her touch, but turned and wrapped her in his arms in one fluid motion, relief etched on his face.  


When he released her, Murphy turned to Bellamy to embrace him as well.  


“What’s wrong, Murph?” Bellamy asked as the two released each other from the embrace. “What’s with all the yelling?”

“Those bastard guards locked us down here, leading us to die like sheep to a slaughter,” he explained quickly, then raised his voice to a shout. “Are we not good enough for you assholes? You’re not God! You don’t get to choose who lives or dies down here!”  


Bellamy spun of his foot, not bothering to respond to Murphy’s news. He reached toward Clarke, but instead of giving her a reassuring squeeze or a hug, he threaded his hands through her hair, pulling it loose from its up-do.  


She stared quizzically at him, but Bellamy was already moving away from her once more. He crouched down in front of the metal gate, his eyes level with the locks.  


Using the pins from Clarke’s hair, he deftly maneuvered them to turn the lock. Clarke and Murphy stared in silence as he worked painstakingly slowly.  


Finally, the lock clicked and the gate swung open.  


The mob swarmed forward, knocking Clarke face forward onto the ground. 

——

Before Bellamy could even stand from his crouch in front of the gate, a sea of hands pressed into his back, pushing him forward into the metal.

With the doors now completely open, a panic worse than before ensued. The people who had stood together only mere moments before, using their collective strength to try and pry open the lock, now pushed each other, their animalistic instincts kicking it. 

  
As he traveled with the current of fleeing forms, Bellamy peered wildly around, desperately searching for loose blonde waves or big blue eyes.   


Straining his own brown owns, he barely made out a hand fighting to break through the mob before being trampled once more.

His stomach sank quicker than the ship, realizing at once the hand could only belong to Clarke.  


With each person Bellamy shoved away as he maneuvered back through the gate toward the staircase, two more remained in his way. For each step he trudged closed to Clarke, he was dragged three away.

His despair grew. What if he never reached her? What if she was too hurt? What if this slowed them down too much, and they missed the lifeboats? 

Finally, her pale porcelain hand appeared again, waving furiously over the sea of bodies as she tried to right herself.   


Like a salmon swimming upstream, Bellamy edged his way toward her, barely able to withstand the current of those moving around him.  


Reaching as far forward as he could, Bellamy’s fingers barely grasped onto her own. 

He tugged her, firmly pulling her into his arms, before releasing her slightly to appraise her. She had a gash down the side of her cheek, and her loose curls hung in disarray, but the steely cold determination in her eyes informed him that she was fine. 

Hand in hand, they pushed through the crowd once more, one step closer to the lifeboats.

——

Up on the top deck, chaos ensued. People jumped from balconies into the water, swimming madly in an attempt to climb onto the lifeboats down below. Others hung from the railing, wielding knives and trying to cut the remaining boats from the deck.  


Clarke, hand still firmly grasped within Bellamy’s, was dragged through the crowd, shoving others mercilessly so that she may increase her own odds of survival.

Sinclair stood with a guard near a lifeboat being lowered, gun cocked in his hand as he threatened shots to those trying to climb aboard.

Bellamy pushed Clarke toward Sinclair, and when he spotted her, he fired one shot into the air. The wall of people between them abruptly parted like the Red Sea.   


Sinclair reached Clarke’s wrist, reeling her in towards the boat.  


“Miss. Griffin!” He called, relief apparent on his face. “Thank the Lord that you made it.”

Before Clarke could realize what had occurred, she was shoved on the lifeboat, and the guards surrounding Sinclair had given the order to lower the boat toward the sea.

She reached her hand over the edge, desperately trying to reach Bellamy, who stood nearby solemnly.

Despite his brave face, his smile relieved, Clarke could have sworn she saw a single tear stream down his tan cheek.

Suddenly, the air was sucked from her lungs. Her eyes darted from side to side, feeling as if she were an animal backed into a corner.

She couldn’t leave Bellamy. She just couldn’t.

As the boat descended further and further from the top deck, Clarke made out the appearance of a tall man next to Bellamy, placing his hand reassuringly on Bellamy’s shoulder.

Cage.  


“Don’t worry, Clarke,” he called, “Blake and I will be on the next boat down. We’ll see you on the other side.”  


Even from a distance, Clarke could hear the dishonesty in her fiancé’s voice. She had done the math herself. There were hardly enough lifeboats on board for all of the women and children, let alone an accused criminal from the third class. 

She and Cage both knew Bellamy would never make it off this boat alive.   


Without a moment’s hesitation, Clarke jumped from the lifeboat onto a lower deck, using every muscle to pull herself up and over the railing until she stood once more on the deck of the sinking ship.

——

Bellamy watched with wide eyes as Clarke dove from the lifeboat to the railing, barely managing to cling to the boat and narrowing avoiding falling into the frigid sea below. 

Abby screamed her daughter’s name from within the boat, her voice stricken with grief, and Cage’s hand on his shoulder tightened. 

He tore his eyes away from the lifeboat, now on the surface of the ocean, long enough to see Clarke no longer on the lower deck. 

Had her fingers slipped from the railing? Had she plunged into the water below? Would he see her again?  


Before he could climb over the railing to jump in after her, a form suddenly threw itself onto his stiff body.

He pivoted on his toe only to have face buried in Clarke’s blonde hair. 

Bellamy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Clarke,” he whispered between peppering kissed onto her face,” you stupid, stupid woman. Why did you do that? Why aren’t you on that boat?”

She broke from his grasp to meet his eyes. She shot him a half, sheepish smile. “We sink or swim together, right?”  


He pulled her in once more to kiss her, deeper this time.

Just as Bellamy began to melt into her, nearly forgetting entirely about his surroundings and impending doom, Bellamy was ripped apart her by a body hurtling between them.

Bellamy sat up from where he’d been knocked onto the ground, groaning from a lack of oxygen. Cage towered above him, standing between him and Clarke.   


Cage barely spared Bellamy a glance, staring at him as if he were a bug on the bottom of Cage’s dress shoes. Instead, Cage turned to face Clarke.

“How dare you leave that boat for him!” He growled. “He’s nothing but lower class vermin! I’m your fiancé! How dare you leave me to be a whore to him? I’ve seen cleaner sewage than him.”

Bellamy didn’t even need to stand to defend himself, because before he could react, Clarke had punched Cage cleanly across the face.  


——

She stood shaking out her wrist, a menacing frown on her face. “I’d rather be his whore than your wife,” she spat. 

Cage backed away toward Sinclair, cradling his hand gently against his bloody nose.  


As her coward fiancé scurried away, retreating, Clarke extended her hand to haul Bellamy to his feet. Once standing, she hurled herself into his arms, tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

Clarke could barely hear Bellamy’s voice from where he rested against her hair as he said, “I can’t believe you left the boat.”

She didn’t respond, instead just held onto him tighter.

The pair didn’t pull apart until nearby yelling reminded them of their situation. 

Cage stood mere feet away, perched on the edge of the railing as he tried to pry a young girl out of a full life raft.  


Sinclair aimed his pistol toward Cage, his face troubled. “Let the girl go, Wallace,” he urged. “She’s only a child.”

Like a dog with its leg stuck in a trap, Cage looked prepared to do anything. He held the child in front of him like a shield. “I’m getting off this boat one way or another,” he responded, voice higher than normal.   


Sinclair took a deep breath and lowered his gun. It looked as though cage had won. No one would shoot and risk hurting the girl.

But then one of the guards shot Cage in the foot, and he released the girl onto the deck in front of him as he slipped backwards. Cage barely managed to grip the railing to keep from falling.

The guard approached the railing where Cage hung by one sweaty hand, begging to be pulled back onto the deck.

Instead of taking pity, the guard shot Cage in the hand, causing him to release and fall to the depths below.  


The guard turned toward Bellamy and Clarke, who stood watching the situation with gaping mouths. He shrugged, then replied, “Mr. Wallace said ‘one way or another’”.

Clarke and Bellamy didn’t even exchange relieved smiles before a loud crack echoed through the night sky, and the upper deck snapped in half. 

——

The sound of screams ripped through the night air as hundreds of people plunged into the water below, unable to escape the harsh pull of gravity. Bellamy and Clarke had grabbed onto the railing, now dangling helplessly above the ocean.   


“On the count of three, we’re going to have to jump,” Bellamy warned. “If we wait until the ship sinks completely, we’ll be sucked into the whirlpools and we won’t be able to resurface.”

Clarke nodded stoically, but behind her steely gaze Bellamy could see her fear, could feel it in the way one hand gripped his too tightly, the other turning white on the railing.   


“Ok,” he said again. “1...”  


He kissed Clarke’s cheek.

“2...”  


Clarke closed her eyes.  


“... and 3!”

They both released the rail, flailing through the sky as they free fell into the sea below.

——  


Growing up in New York, Clarke had been cold before. Every winter, she would leave her preparatory school bundled in a petticoat and scarf, but her cheeks would still color red with frostbite.

Now, as she plunged underwater into the freezing Atlantic, however, she realized she had never actually experienced true cold. 

White fingertips from snowball fights didn’t even compare to the painful tingling throughout her entire body now.   


It took every muscle she had to kick herself toward the surface, trying desperately to ignore the knife-lick prickling of her limbs.   


When she broke the surface, and her eyes adjusted to the near pitch-black around her, she searched frantically for Bellamy.  


His messy hair, his brown eyes, his freckled cheeks. Anything to let her know that he made it too.

But around her, only pale white bodies floated motionless, too frozen to kick and keep their heads above the surface.

——

Bellamy spit out a mouth full of salt water, treading in the waves as he swung his head from side to side.

There was no sign of the pale blonde hair, or of loose curls or determined blue eyes. 

Beside him, a woman in a lacy gown floated face down. Panicked seized inside Bellamy, and he paddled madly toward the woman.  


In one motion, he flipped the body over, holding his breath. The woman was young, but as he got a closer look, he noticed her hair was more Auburn and her nose too large to be Clarke’s.  


He exhaled. So this body wasn’t Clarke’s. Good.

But there were still hundreds more bodies floating around him, and Clarke was nowhere in sight.  


He paddled feet away, bracing himself to turn the next body over.

——  


Clarke’s muscles seized, contracting in every which way to try and generate body heat. Moments earlier, a grown man floated by her, his face blue and pulse long gone.

She had removed his life vest and placed it on herself, thanking God that she’d be able to conserve energy by floating. 

Around her, the decks, broken in half, finally sank completely into the water. Corpses around her were sucked below with the current, and Clarke kicked furiously away to avoid being swallowed into the abyss. 

  
“Please, God,” she murmured as the screams died out, the last of the bodies already underwater, “Let none of those bodies be Bellamy.”  


——  


A baby cried nearby. The weak sound reminded Bellamy of Octavia. She used to wail like that whenever his mother left for work, leaving the two young children alone with no food for dinner.

He closed his eyes tightly, reminding himself that Octavia was safe. She wasn’t on this ship. That wasn’t her crying. She would be married soon. She was safe.  


But Clarke wasn’t.  


——  


She forgot what it felt like to feel her feet. Did she still have feet? Clarke couldn’t spare any energy to check, but she was sure that they hadn’t fallen off.

Whether or not they were there, though, Clarke couldn’t kick. She continued to float motionlessly, praying someone would save them soon.  


——  


The baby stopped crying. Bellamy didn’t think that was a good sign.

——

The world was quiet. How long had it been? Had it been minutes? Hours? Clarke could feel her mind beginning to fade. The water was so cold.

She was so cold. If she could only close her eyes for a little...  


——

The searchlight swept through the sea of people in the Atlantic, and the men aboard called into the night, breaking the silence that had abounded in the last few hours.  


“Is there anyone alive out there?” The men called.  


Bellamy was too tired to yell back.

——

  
Clarke’s eyes shot open when a bright light shined on her face. Distantly, she recognized voices calling out around her.

  


She felt as though her arm raised a thousand pounds, but she painstakingly slowly lifted one hand toward the light.

The men from the boat turned toward her direction.

——

His throat was dry. Not even the salt water he had swallowed when he first plunged into the ocean could help. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Despite this, Bellamy still called out, “Help.”  


——  


The blanket was itchy, not nearly as soft as the fine cotton quilts from first class, but Clarke had never felt anything better in her life.  


Slowly, she began to regain feeling in her fingertips. She wiggled them one at a time. The diamond on her left ring finger caught her eye.

For the second time in hours, she raised her arm. This time, she moved it across her chest, and held her left hand in her right.

Clarke plucked the diamond from her wrist, and tossed it into the waves.  


She was a free woman.

——  


The deck of the rescue cruise liner was not as luxurious as the Dropship’s, nor nowhere near as large.  


But the dry wood beneath Bellamy’s feet felt better than any first class liner ever could.  


He wrapped himself securely in a blanket, and curled up on the floor next to the other soaked survivors. He buried his face in the scratchy material, and sleep pulled him away from reality.  


——

Clarke sat wide-awake on the deck of the ship. After she regained her strength, she walks laps upon laps around the ship.  


Bellamy was nowhere to be found.

She stared motionlessly as the horizon as the Statue of Liberty finally came into view. Soon, they’d be arriving at Ellis Island.  


When a crewmember came around to ask her name, she replied without hesitation, “Clarke Blake.”

——  


No one was allowed off the ship, even after it had docked in Ellis Island. Bellamy Gad pestered every crewmember he could find, asking each one whether or not Clarke Griffin was found alive in the wreckage.

Each member told him the same thing.  


There was no Clarke Griffin on this boat.  


——  


Clarke was pulled from her fugue state by a crewmember.

“Miss. Blake,” he said as he gently shook her awake. “We found your family member. She boarded the ship from Ellis Island.”

Even in her sleepy state, Clarke blinked in confusion. Had they found her mother? Did her mother know that she changed her name?   


The tall, brunette girl that stood across from Clarke was not her mother.  


No. Instead, Clarke recognized her as the girl from the photograph beneath Bellamy’s pillow.

Octavia Blake.  


——  


Bellamy asked the Captain relentlessly when he would be able to leave the ship.   


When he found out that Clarke hadn’t survived, he’d entered a nearly comatose state for an entire day. He refused to eat, refused to drink, and refused to speak.

Now, Bellamy remembered what else he had to live for. Or rather, who else.  


His baby sister was somewhere in New York, no doubt having heard of the disaster of the Dropship by now.

The Captain informed Bellamy, after much pestering, that he would relay a message to the younger Blake, informing her of his safety.

In a few short days’ time, he would see his sister once more.

——  


Before Clarke could register what she was doing, she had closed the distance between her and Octavia, enveloping them both in the blanket.

Octavia stood stiffly, but didn’t push the other girl away.  


When Clarke pulled away from the embrace, Octavia stared at her quizzically.  


“Who are you?” The younger Blake asked, eyebrows crinkled in confusion.   


Clarke’s heart performed a flip in her stomach. When Octavia scrunched her face in concentration, trying desperately to place Clarke in her memory, she so clearly resembled her brother, who wore the same expression the first time Clarke ever saw him with his book.

“I’m Clarke,” she said. “I was a friend of your brother’s”.  


“Was?” Octavia asked, voice breaking. Clarke’s heart flipped once more.

——  


When the family members from Ellis Island we’re finally arrived on board, Bellamy walked aimlessly around the ship’s decks, desperately trying to find Octavia’s signature red ribbon.

He finally spotted her across the deck, locked in an embrace with a blanket-shrouded form.

When the form pulled away from his sister, he recognized the blonde curls immediately.  


——

  
“Bellamy isn’t dead,” Octavia said slowly. “He’s the one who called me here. The Captain told me himself.”

Clarke couldn’t believe her ears. Obviously Octavia was mistaken. She’d have seen Bellamy by now. She’d have known if he were alive.

Obviously the Blake that the Captain had been referring to, the Blake that had survived the crash, was Clarke.

——

Bellamy’s feet suddenly felt like lead. He had trouble picking up his limbs to carry himself closer to the two women he loved more than anyone else in the world.

Clarke looked so broken as she slowly shook her head at something Octavia said, her eyes downcast toward the floor. 

His sister’s voice carried across the ship. “I swear, Clarke, my brother is alive.”

Bellamy’s feet unconsciously moved once more.

——  


“No, it’s impossible,” Clarke whispered, shaking her head in denial.   


If Bellamy had survived, she’d know it. She would!  


This was a cruel joke.

——  


It felt like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than a minute since he’d spotted them, until Bellamy finally closed the distance between himself and the woman.

He picked Octavia up first and spun her in a circle, causing her to squeal in surprise. When he put her down, she flung her arms around his neck, burying her face there.  


“Bell,” she breathed. He didn’t need her to say anything else. He felt the same.

——

As if she were punched in the gut, all of the air left Clarke’s lungs when Bellamy picked up Octavia.  


He was alive.

  
After a painfully long embrace, he finally disentangled himself from his sister and turned to face her for the first time.  


Clarke couldn’t move.  


Bellamy closed the distance between them, kissing her deeply.

Although the kiss left her breathless, Clarke felt like she could breathe easily for the first time since the crash.  


——

**16 April 1912**

Bellamy disembarked from the boat, one hand tucked firmly in Clarke’s tiny one, and his other arm thrown around his sister’s shoulder. 

Clarke had told him earlier that she’d changed her name to Blake, leaving all traces of Clarke Griffin and the girl who was engaged to Cage behind on the Dropship. Although he’d been unable to find her on the rescue boat because of it, Bellamy couldn’t help the giddy laugh that escaped him.   


Together, the Blake’s left the boat, ready to start their new lives.

Together. Bellamy could get used to that.   


**Author's Note:**

> **“the suitcase! I need to grab it! All of my belongings are in there, and I can’t live without them”
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can decide which of the minor characters you believe lived or died. It's up to your imagination. Please comment and leave kudos if you enjoyed :)
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as dontwakeme-causeimdreaming


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